


The view from the walls

by laughingpineapple



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: Multi, Understanding, V turning into a triad, snitches get stitches unless they're cute and fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-22 13:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22683262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingpineapple/pseuds/laughingpineapple
Summary: A persistent echo lingers in their wake.
Relationships: Oralech & Tariq | The Lone Minstrel, Oralech/Volfred Sandalwood/Tariq | The Lone Minstrel
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	The view from the walls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jasp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasp/gifts).



> Happy Chocobox! It's the first time I approach this OT3 so I felt like I had to know how the oddest side of it gets along? I hope this works for you!

There is a dead end on the parapets up on the outer walls. It is a proud, wide arch, ending on a pillar that sits upon the outskirts of the capital, as if the city itself was having second thoughts about corralling itself away from the lands it governs. The late afternoon sun casts a maze of shadows over the pavement of the walk. The way to the end is clear, but out of respect, Tariq will not cross the sharp shapes of cranes, planks, slabs, distant turrets and half-finished pinnacles. Oralech stands at the end, like a statue watching over the Union whole (claws gripping the scaffolding that keeps him from a steep fall. Enough of those).

Resting under a nearby pinnacle, Tariq follows, admired, the dialogue between Oralech’s presence, the city’s presence clamoring down below, the way Oralech’s shadow melts into those of the city and drags behind him like a mantle. It is a complex web of roles and belonging. Of heartache, maybe. Tariq follows it on the strings of his lute, plucking somber notes for Oralech, about Oralech, posing open questions he has no answers for at the end of the bar.

“Coward,” says Oralech. He does not turn around; his voice is clear. “To talk behind people’s back is the act of a coward.”

Tariq lowers his lute. “Beg your pardon?”

“Do not feign ignorance. You speak meanings with your music, but it is not a language I can understand.”

“Shall I fall silent?”

“No. Play it again, slower.”

There is a gap between them. There has been a gap between them since the days of their travels in the Blackwagon, before the fall and before the Plan took root within Tariq. Now it spans the distance between stars. Oralech’s interest feels, for a moment, like a rope cast through the skies.

So Tariq plays it again, this doleful tune that is the sound of Oralech in his life. He plays the simple melody first, then goes back to the beginning to explore its variations, repetition built upon repetition until a meaning manifests itself: the Scribes, their Will, this new Plan as a manifestation of that old Will, the new society free from the ills of the old, again and again. An individual tries to find a path through this bright and glorious frame, but their pain is gilded, their toiling wrapped in fates. Individuality falls into the cracks of great designs. The song fades. The moon is too far away.

Oralech speaks: “And you do not rage against this injustice?” The demon’s grip makes the scaffolding give out an anguished creaking. “You do not scream until the sky falls down?”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you. Does it feel like coming back from the stars was not enough? Your act of universal defiance too demure?” He strides back, trampling the shadows. His gaze burns. Tariq takes in that warmth. Brings a hand to his mouth. Not even Celeste dared to speak to him so.

“Surely you understand, sir, that this conversation is not about me.”

“How improper that would be. Oh, Ti’zo told me of this habit of yours. I had forgotten, or never noticed at all. You’d talk about a blade of grass before talking about yourself, but then only insofar as it is often trampled on and can be made to sing.” For a moment he hesitates, and Tariq ponders the tolls of straightforwardness. Embracing one’s open wounds. Then Oralech speaks again, with strained understanding: “I am a doctor of my own people, of saps by now, sometimes of curs. I do not know what ails you. But I can listen. If it involves being discarded off a mountain... or not being certain of where freedom begins... or both at once... rest assured that I know how to listen.”

_May the stars shine ever brightly on_ _you_ , Tariq would say, and he would mean every word of it, but there are no new stars in the night sky and the topic is fraught anyway.

They rest in silence until Volfred surprises them on the parapets – could be that Tariq’s unvoiced blessing has been heeded and the first star of this new world has come to pay them a visit, radiant already, gleaming above his city in the early evening. This one, he is sure, Oralech will not mind. Volfred strolls toward them, Ti’zo in tow as is often the case, perching now on the Prime Minister’s shoulder, now in the hollow of his head.

“My loves, dearest companions,” he addresses them, and they both know at once that what his mood really means is that the negotiations that have kept him busy for the better part of the week are taking a turn for the better. Oralech laughs, enough for both of them, and goes to greet him and tell him about his day. Tariq picks up his lute again, replaying this moment of understanding in his own language, in F minor, wondering if such a fleeting thing could survive in Volfred’s presence. Not yet, he concludes. One day, but not yet. He shall leave the mortals to their brief time together and think about today.

As he passes them by on his way back to the bustling city, he takes the time to caress Volfred’s shoulder (thankful, longing, abstract – Volfred would understand all he means by that) and nudge Ti’zo to join him. The imp obliges, hopping onto his extended arm. Tariq warbles something at him; by the time Ti’zo’s reply is over, the evening wind has swept their chirps away and their silhouettes are lost in the twilight haze.

“Imp-speech comes not easy to me,” says Oralech, holding Volfred close as the wind rises. Soon they, too, shall head back. “And in truth Tariq’s accent sounds like no drive-imp I’ve heard. But I bet you a button that his warbling spelled out _to talk behind people’s back is the act of a coward_...”

“How so?”

He hums. “A hunch.”

Volfred raises an eyebrow and neither confirms nor denies the translation.


End file.
